It’s ten P.M and I look down at the pants that I’m wearing. They have a mysterious white stain on them that, at one point would have been semen, but is now probably cake batter from the cupcakes I made for a school party for my eldest son. Oh, the mighty, I sigh to myself thinking of the minivan, the kids, the UNSEMEN STAIN, how she has fallen. Then I look over to my husband, The Daver, who has just gotten home from work and is sitting on the couch, exhausted, and barely keeping his eyes open to watch television. Oh, wait, nope, now he’s asleep. Looks like it’s no sex for us tonight. Again. Deep sigh.
I’ve been on a mission to reinvent myself since January, one I call “The Bringing Aunt Becky Back Project,” after having spent the brunt of my twenties popping babies out of my delicate girly regions. I figured if I had to spend what was supposed to be the hottest years of my life looking like McDonald’s Grimace, I really needed to focus my efforts upon making my thirties, well, better. Let’s face it, it won’t take much, people.
Like any good project, it’s gone over it’s timetable AND budget and will continue to do so. I realized that along with a discernible waistline, I’d lost a fair amount of self-esteem along the way. Part of it was trying to wrestle with my new identity and part of it was learning to deal with my new, awkward shape. I know, I KNOW, we’re not supposed to tie our self-worth to our waistline, I get it, but I’ll tell you that while I can’t possibly reveal the number without punching myself in the face, changing my name, erasing my blog and then running for the border with a hot Cuban named Carlos, it wasn’t pretty. It really wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t making me happy. And because it made me so desperately unhappy, it wasn’t doing anything to help my sex life.
Where before I might have considered, you know, GETTING NAKED to have sex, or slip into something more comfortable (no, not like a leisure suit) now I was pretty much ashamed to take my shirt off because it all just looked like mashed potatoes to me. Now, my husband never said anything mean about it, in fact, he was sweet, but I was the one who felt as attractive as moldy pudding. So I WANTED to have The Sex, but I couldn’t handle the thought of having to get naked and comfortable with my new body enough to do so.
Before you point out that all I needed to do was to pry the cake out of my mouth and get my ass to the gym, let me assure you that I already was. My body likes to hold onto that baby weight because it hates me a lot, but finally, I celebrated my last child’s birthday with the loss of some pounds. Then some more. And some more after that.
I’ll tell you, Toy-With-Me-ers, I felt empowered for the first time in years, seeing that scale actually move. There’s nothing more erotic to me than feeling like I might finally be back in control of some small part of my life, so that, of course, gets me in the mood for some humping. Especially since I’ve been taking care to make a real effort with my appearance. I’m back to waxing and dying and pedicuring, and pampering and primping and all that stuff I stopped doing when I felt bad about myself. That makes me feel even MORE in control of myself and pretty much by the end of the day, I’m about ready to hump the wall.
Except that most days, after taking care of my three crotch parasites, my menagerie of slightly neurotic yet adorable pets, pathetically working on my blog, and you know, all of the awesomeness that goes into being Your Aunt Becky, I’m kinda wiped. And The Daver, who works an hour away and commutes three hours a day at a job he works eighty hours a week, well, he’s wiped too. He’s been neutered now, which was supposed to alleviate the stress of “ZOMG AM I PREGNANT?” but now we’re both just so tired most of the time. Which, hi, that’s SUCH a cliché that I just vomited onto myself typing that.
So this needs to change immediately if not sooner because I REFUSE to be the suburban stereotype that is all, “oh honey, not tonight, I HAVE A HEADACHE.” I can live in the suburbs with the zombies and I can own a minivan and I can even grow some killer roses, but I’ll be dipped in pig shit if I let something as silly as sleep get in the way of my sexy time for very much longer. I’m just not quite sure HOW this can be accomplished, but like I tackle any project (balls to the motherfucking wall), I’m determined to find a way. Certainly, this is a not a problem unique to The Daver and I, which means that other people have solved it.
Um, right? So, dish Toy With Me-ers. I need some advice from you. Or sympathy. Or advice AND sympathy. And maybe cookies. Everyone likes cookies, right?
(And if it involves the phrase, “duct tape the children to the basement walls while you bone,” it won’t work. They wriggle out of that stuff SO quickly. It’s like they’re ACTUALLY monkeys and not children at all. Which, hm, maybe they are. CREEPY.)